


"They Soon Had Me Packed Into Bed"

by Crowgirl, Kivrin



Series: On the Strength of the Evidence [21]
Category: Grantchester (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Domestic, Established Relationship, Illnesses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:46:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9455609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kivrin/pseuds/Kivrin
Summary: Sidney looks as though he hasn’t gotten out of bed since Geordie sent him up to it the night before.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place the day after _[Holy, Cold, and Still](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9283655)_ and _[Home](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9285497)_.

Geordie stops in the kitchen doorway and looks from the jar of Cathy’s chicken soup in his hands to the saucepans, casseroles, and jars ranged over the kitchen table and the countertop. ‘Coals to Newcastle, I see. Should’ve brought a loaf of bread.’

Leonard looks up from a bowl of something grey-brown and says, ‘Not at all, it’s very kind of you.’ He takes a bite of the soup, frowns, and murmurs: ‘Nourishing, yes, one could say nourishing…’ He makes a note on a sheet of paper that’s half-under the nearest saucepan. As Geordie takes a final step in so he can close the door, he can see that the paper is covered in notes. He cranes his head slightly: _Mrs Williams - lamb stew - a little greasy, otherwise flavorful. Mrs Eagleton - baked beans - enjoyably stodgy…_ He wonders if the notes were Leonard’s idea or Mrs M’s and then catches a glimpse of Mrs Maguire’s expression again: definitely Leonard’s idea.

‘I don’t suppose you’ll take a bowl of something, Inspector,’ Mrs M says, gesturing to the array. ‘I don’t see how we’ll get through half of this without it spoiling, when _he_ turns up his nose at anything but tea.’ She bangs the kettle under the tap. ‘And whiskey.’

‘Sidney will want Mrs Keating’s soup, though, I’m sure,’ Leonard counters. ‘At least he’ll try it. Mrs Jasper’s carrot and barley, though…’ He sits back, sighs, and drops the spoon. ‘It’s a shame we don’t have a pig.’

Geordie is startled into laughing. It’s the closest he’s ever heard Leonard come to being deliberately unpleasant about something. ‘What you need is a freezer.’ As soon as he’s said it he wishes the words back in; Caro had bought one for him and Cathy when Dora and Esme were growing old enough to rebel at the monotony of eggs or beans on toast for tea when Mummy was out with Aunt Caro. He’d carefully never found out what the thing might cost. The electricity for it is bad enough.

Mrs M sniffs disapprovingly, but all she says is ‘Quite enough ice without bringing it indoors, thank you.’

Geordie nods, and looks for a place to put his jar down. With an uncomfortable pang of sympathy he remembers Amanda Hopkins in the sitting room yesterday, her assured request to see Sidney, and the disappointment on her too-smooth face when she was denied. He won’t open himself to that refusal.

‘Still hot?’ Mrs M says.

‘Yes… yes, it was near boiling when Cathy served it out, and I wrapped it up in a picnic blanket in the car.’

Mrs M takes the jar and nods approvingly. She gets down a bowl from a cupboard, pours out a generous portion of soup, and sticks in a spoon. ‘Why don’t you take this up, Inspector.' She offers the bowl, waiting while Geordie wriggles out of his overcoat and shoves it at the coat tree almost without looking. He puts out his hands, but she holds on for another moment, frowning. ‘Just don’t wake him if…’

‘Mrs M,’ Leonard protests. ‘I’m sure Geo- Mr- the Inspector has the sense God gave a goose.’ He sighs again, and sneezes.

She whips her head around. ‘Well, that’s more sense than you and Mr Chambers have put together.’ She marches across the kitchen to feel Leonard’s forehead while he sniffles abashedly into his handkerchief. ‘Hot bath. Aspirin. Bed. And I’ll ring Mr. Grant, there’s not a prayer either of you will be in any state...’

Geordie escapes up the back stairs with the soup and spoon before Mrs M can order _him_ into the spare bedroom. He finds Sidney’s door propped open a crack, spilling a mix of cold winter daylight and warm lamplight into the passage. Mindful of the potential for creaking boards, Geordie moves carefully as he nudges the door open.

Dickens is nose-to-tail at the bottom of the bed, breathing deeply in what is almost a snore; the very tip of his tail is twitching and, as Geordie looks, the claws of one paw scratch against the sheets.

Sidney is sitting up in bed, propped on a stack of pillows, a book open over one knee. He looks as though he hasn’t gotten out of bed since Geordie sent him up to it the night before; knowing Mrs Maguire, Geordie thinks it’s possible he hasn’t. Someone has brought up the gramophone from the study and there’s an untidy stack of records on the floor by the bedside table. There’s also a small basket with a collection of handkerchiefs.

Geordie clears his throat and elbows the door the rest of the way open. ‘C’mon--’ He takes the book out of Sidney’s hands and substitutes the bowl and spoon. ‘Before Mrs M takes to force-feeding you.’

‘What -- what?’ Sidney blinks at him blearily, then looks at the soup, and Geordie resists the urge to comb his tangled hair back off his forehead and ask if he wants a hot flannel to wipe his face. Cathy’s always told him he’s a worse mother hen than she is and Sidney is not one of his kids. Instead, he moves the gramophone off the chair and sits down himself.

Sidney takes a tentative spoonful of the soup. ‘Oh -- I can _taste_ this!’ He sounds ridiculously pleased.

‘It’s Cathy’s. She makes it for the kids when they’re sick.’

Sidney takes another spoonful. ‘What is it?’

Geordie shakes his head. ‘Don’t know exactly. Caro’s the only other one who has the recipe. They’re a bit cagey about it.’ Personally, he thinks it might be one of the few things Cathy took from her African childhood; the combination of flavors is certainly nothing he’s ever tasted in anything English.

‘Please thank her for me.’ Sidney eats in silence for a minute, then pauses and, just as Geordie is about to ask if something’s wrong, he sneezes explosively, muffling his face in the back of his wrist. Dickens jumps awake at the noise. ‘Damn it.’

‘Here.’ Geordie takes away the half-empty bowl and thrusts a clean hankie into Sidney’s hands, noticing as he does so the careful monogram in one corner: **LBF**. Leonard’s presumably -- but what’s the B for? And why on earth doesn’t Sidney have his own?

‘Thanks.’ Sidney snuffles into the clean linen then glares at Geordie. ‘Why aren’t you sick?’

Geordie gestures with the bowl. ‘Plenty of this stuff. Plus I’ve had the kids wiping their noses on me for years and every drunk in town-- well. Don’t think I _can_ get a cold anymore.’ He puts the bowl down on the bedside table as Dickens yawns and stretches, pushing his front paws up the bed in a ruck of blankets and sheets.

Sidney snorts, sneezes again, then sighs, slumping back against the pillows, giving his nose a last swipe with the balled up hankie. ‘I hate being sick.’

‘Then you should’ve admitted you were earlier,’ Geordie says, ignoring the glower. ‘And you might not be so bad now.’

‘How’s Leonard getting on? I haven’t seen him since yesterday.’

Geordie hesitates. ‘Er --’

‘Oh, don’t tell me he’s ill, too--’ Sidney groans. He glances at the pen and notebook on his bedside table and closes his eyes. ‘I don’t think I could write a sermon now if you held a gun to my head.’ He coughs, a long, ragged sound that makes Geordie’s chest ache in sympathy, and adds hoarsely, ‘Or read it.’

‘I heard Mrs M say something about calling a Mr Grant as I was coming upstairs,’ Geordie offers. It isn’t the local doctor’s name, he knows that.

Sidney sighs and swallows another cough. ‘Oh, good. Tell her not to let him in the damned house, though.’

‘I’m sure she’s thought of that.’

Sidney makes a beckoning motion and Geordie passes the bowl back. Dickens looks interested and Sidney gives him a nudge through the bedclothes, then a shake of his head. 'Not sharing,' he tells his dog, before spooning up another mouthful. 'Well, half the vestry’s already down with flu so that meeting was cancelled, at least. And it’s only the first week of Advent. One of us will surely be fit to get the nativity play in shape...'

'Don’t think about work,' Geordie orders. 'It’ll send your temperature up. Think about…' He looks down at the book he’d taken out of Sidney’s hands. 'Whatever this is.'

Sidney glances over and Geordie holds it up; Sidney makes a sound that under normal circumstances would be a laugh. ‘Leonard.’

‘That lad needs to get out more,’ Geordie mutters, pulling a face at the garish green cover: _Love in a Cold Climate._ It’s a painful pursuit to judge from the bisected heart or Cupid or whatever the cover decoration is supposed to be. ‘I’d’ve brought you something better if I’d known.’

Sidney shakes his head. ‘It’s all right -- I can’t stay awake long enough to read more than a page or two at a time. It might be the most gripping novel of the century and I’d never know it.’ He takes the last spoonful of meat and rice and looks down at Dickens. The dog is sitting with his head resting on his front paws, watching Sidney carefully. ‘Oh, go on, then.’ Sidney props the bowl between his ankles and Dickens is immediately nose-deep. ‘Don’t tell Mrs M I did this.’

Geordie widens his eyes in an expression of what-do-you-take-me-for, then draws an X over his heart. Sidney grins; somehow it’s even more endearing when he’s pale and red-nosed. And rumpled, in pajamas, in bed… Geordie shifts his gaze abruptly to Dickens, and he and Sidney watch him enjoying the dregs of the soup for perhaps half a minute before Sidney hunches over coughing. This time it’s hard for him to stop, and Geordie gives in to temptation. He shifts to sit on the edge of the bed so he can rub Sidney’s back.

'All right, all right,' he soothes, moving his hand in steady circles. 'I’ve got him,' he adds, to Dickens, when the dog looks up and whimpers uncertainly.

When he can draw an even breath, Sidney droops back against Geordie, pressing one hand to his own chest, and mumbles, 'Bugger.'

'Not just now, thank you,' Geordie says with his best approximation of poshness. 'Shh, shh,' he adds hastily when Sidney tries to laugh and ends up coughing again. 'Sorry, Chri-, um, Je-, um…'

'Shut up,' Sidney croaks, giving Geordie a gentle poke in the ribs. He rests his head on Geordie’s shoulder for a long moment, then draws back with a sigh. 'Shouldn’t…'

'Told you. Impervious, me.' It’s not what Sidney meant and Geordie knows it, so he lets him go, though he stays perched on the bed. 'You have anything for that?' he asks, touching Sidney’s chest lightly.

'Lozenges.' Sidney nods at an open tin by the handkerchiefs on the bedside table. 'Mrs M keeps threatening to make a mustard plaster.'

'I bet she does.' Geordie shudders. 'Well, let me see what I can find.' He gets up, pulls the bedclothes closer to Sidney’s chest, and retrieves the bowl from Dickens. 'D’you want a record on?'

Sidney shakes his head. 'Should let you go home,' he murmurs, though the way he leans towards Geordie looks more like a plea for him to stay. 'Cathy must need you.'

'Cathy’s glad to have me out from underfoot for a few hours. Anything you’d like from downstairs? Different book?'

'No. Oh, but let Dickens out, please? Leonard was going to give him a walk… go with Geordie, Dickens.'

Geordie nods, resisting the urge to tuck Sidney in better, and slips downstairs with Dickens padding at his heels. He thinks he might need to encourage the dog out the front door, but Dickens gives only one mournful look towards the stairs before bounding out.

The kitchen is empty now, but there’s banging and sloshing from the scullery where Mrs M does the laundry, and a strong smell of disinfectant. There’s a tin of mustard powder and some very worn linen cloth on the wooden kitchen table. Geordie grimaces and considers hiding them to try and save Sidney -- then considers Mrs M’s expression and decides against it.

Geordie puts Sidney’s dishes in the dishpan, then checks the cupboards as quietly as he can. There’s no medicine - they must keep it upstairs. When he climbs the stairs again he hears water running in the bathroom, but the door’s ajar. He looks in to find Leonard in a dressing gown watching the tub fill.

'Oh,' Leonard says. 'I’m sorry, did you…?'

'No, just looking to see if there’s any cough mix.'

'I don’t think so. Just lots of aspirin and some very old camphor.' He gestures to the cabinet.

Geordie checks, all the same, and finds epsom salts and cod liver oil as well, and a jar of Vaseline, but no cold tablets. 'I’ll stop in at the chemist,' he offers. 'What do you like, Leonard?'

'Me? Oh…' He hugs his dressing gown around his thin chest as if the very question’s indecent. 'S-some more lozenges, maybe, Sidney likes Victory-V… and if you could, some Beecham’s powders?'

'‘Course. I’ll bring them ‘round before I go back to Cambridge.' Geordie palms the jar of Vaseline and moves to leave. As he has his hand on the door, though, a thought strikes him. ‘What does the B stand for?’ He glances back at Leonard who stares at him for a moment as though he has started speaking a foreign language.

Leonard blinks slowly, once, then shakes his head. ‘The perils of having a detective about the place, I suppose.’ He squares his shoulders. ‘Bartholomew. And I’d very much appreciate if no-one else found that out.’

‘Scout’s honor.’ Geordie makes some rough approximation of the salute with his free hand and leaves. He hears Leonard close the door firmly but quietly behind him.

Sidney’s leaning back on the pillows with his eyes closed, but he opens them at Geordie’s tread. 'How’s Leonard?'

'On his way into a hot bath, like a good boy. You haven’t got any bloody medicine in the house. But let’s get some of this on you, so you’re prepared when Mrs M does come at you with the mustard.' Geordie makes sure the door is latched, then sits on the edge of the bed again and puts the jar of Vaseline between his leg and Sidney’s to warm up. 'You ever even have a mustard plaster? Me mum used to swear by ‘em,' Geordie goes on when Sidney shakes his head. 'It’s all very well for a few minutes but leave one too long on bare skin and it’ll blister. So you need something underneath.' Hesitantly, he reaches for the buttons of Sidney’s pajama shirt -- it still feels a little too intimate to just start undoing them -- and waits for the weary nod before he starts on the first one. 'Might help the sore muscles, too, have a bit of a rubdown…'

Sidney lets out a wistful, raspy sigh. 'And warm…'

Geordie unfastens another button and slides his hand under the fabric to rest on Sidney’s chest. 'That too,' he answers. He holds still, feeling the shallow but steady (and strong, he reminds himself, nothing like the baby’s feeble jerky gasps) rise and fall of Sidney’s breathing, before he draws back to open the jar. He rubs the oily stuff in his hand to warm it before reaching forward to spread it over Sidney’s skin.

Sidney, eyes closed, makes a quiet sound -- halfway between a stifled cough and a sigh -- when Geordie touches his skin and Geordie has to clear his throat to remind himself that this is a _sickroom_ he’s sitting in. It doesn’t work terribly well -- getting to touch Sidney at all is still far too new for that -- and he has to shift position on the bed, propping one knee on the bed to ease his trousers.

Sidney cracks one eye open and smirks at him. ‘There’s no stopping you, is there?’

Geordie glances over his shoulder -- the door is shut and he can hear Leonard coughing in the bath -- and still can’t stop himself from lowering his voice as he leans forward. ‘You’re not usually complaining.’

The smirk turns into a smile and Sidney shakes his head. ‘I’m not complaining now.’ He catches Geordie’s wrist and presses Geordie’s Vaseline-slick hand flat over his own breastbone. ‘Thank you. For -- for the soup. And--’ He breaks into a cough before he can say anything else and Geordie’s glad of it until Sidney hauls in a rasping breath and keeps going, his voice rough and thick: ‘Leonard told me you drove Amanda back into town last night.’

Geordie refocuses his eyes on Sidney’s fingers covering his hand. ‘Yes.’

Sidney stifles another cough. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

‘Well, I wasn’t going to leave her in the sitting room, was I?’ Geordie deliberately keeps his tone light and hopes Sidney will drop it.

Sidney taps a fingertip against his knuckles until Geordie looks up and Sidney smiles -- red in the cheeks from coughing, hair a sweaty tangle on his forehead, his lips pale and dry and _still_ the fucking loveliest thing Geordie thinks he will ever see -- and reaches out with his free hand to brush along Geordie’s cheek. ‘Thanks.’ He takes a breath as if to go on and breaks into coughs again, almost doubling over and catching at Geordie’s hand as if he might be able to help somehow.

Geordie keeps his hand under Sidney’s and mutters whatever soothing words he can think of until the coughing fit passes and he can feel Sidney’s breath coming easy. He keeps his touch light and smoothes the Vaseline in a wide oval; then Mrs M can do her worst and at least Sidney won’t be dealing with burns on top of everything else.

‘There.’ Geordie finishes with a firm pat over Sidney’s collarbone and rubs his own hands together briskly. ‘Do yourself up again.’

‘How will I ever repay you?’ Sidney says, fumbling at his pajama buttons. ‘Especially if you never need nursing.’ He mock-scowls at Geordie again. ‘Lucky sod.'

‘Ah, well.’ Geordie grimaces at his palms and plucks a handkerchief out of the laundry basket by the bed to rub them on, ignoring Sidney’s groan. He drops the greasy cloth back and grins at Sidney, giving in -- just for a brief moment -- to his desire to lean forward and push Sidney’s hair back off his forehead. ‘You’ll just have to think of something, won’t you?’

**Author's Note:**

> This was born on Twitter as so many good fic things are. The title is from RL Stevenson's ["Escape at Bedtime."](http://www.bartleby.com/188/122.html)
> 
> And, seriously, check this cover:
> 
> [](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:LoveInAColdClimate.jpg#/media/File:LoveInAColdClimate.jpg)  
> By Source, [Fair use](//en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:LoveInAColdClimate.jpg), [Link](https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=20783463)


End file.
